


straight through my heart

by iserlohn (lincesque)



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 19:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15803283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/pseuds/iserlohn
Summary: The clock on his office wall is ticking down towards twelve thirty, about the time when Mittermeyer usually takes his lunch break, and he’s just thinking about wrapping up and saving the document he’s working on and heading down to grab some lunch, when his office door bangs open and his worst nightmare slams his way in without a single knock.“Reuenthal,” he sighs, already mentally resigning himself to a later lunch.modern!au where reuenthal falls in love with flowershop owner yang & mittermeyer suffers by association





	straight through my heart

**Author's Note:**

> some nonsensical fluff that i wanted to write, just to hit all my non-porn kinks lmao
> 
> title from [backstreet boys' song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WkRP4shFX0g), but is more inspired by the upbeat tempo and tune than the lyrics because there's nothing painful about this fic lmao (except mittermeyer who suffers a lot :3)
> 
> hi chris ♥ this was not the way i wanted to do lawyer au, but i guess. this is just how it worked out? XD
> 
> feat. lawyer!reuenthal, flowershop owner!yang, shoujo sparkles, mutual pining, long suffering bffl!mittermeyer and enough sugar to give yourself a toothache

*

 

Mittermeyer’s had a good morning - his lovely wife, Eva, had surprised him with homemade waffles for breakfast before kissing his cheek and sending him off to work. The drive was smooth, the traffic behaving itself for once and he had arrived early enough to manage to snag a parking slot close to the elevators. Then, his client meetings scheduled for ten and eleven had both run smoothly, wrapping up with time to spare even.

The clock on his office wall is ticking down towards twelve thirty, about the time when he usually takes his lunch break, and he’s just thinking about wrapping up and saving the document he’s working on and heading down to grab some lunch, when his office door bangs open and his worst nightmare slams his way in without a single knock.

“Reuenthal,” he sighs, already mentally resigning himself to a later lunch. He does his best to look enthused by his best friend’s presence, but it’s hard when he knows the other man literally only comes to him out of the blue like this when he has one of those particular ‘ideas’ of his, which more often than not ends in nothing but drama.

Oskar von Reuenthal, thirty-two, is handsome, supremely eligible and very much single (by choice). He’s also considered the most vicious prosecutor on this side of the hemisphere and also, Mittermeyer’s oldest and, arguably, best friend.

Today, he’s in a suit so sharp that it feels like it would cut if Mittermeyer got too close, hair slicked back from his high, classic cheekbones, showing off his tall, slim figure and striking, heterochromatic eyes deliberately. Mittermeyer vaguely recalls that Reuenthal was supposed to be in court today, which explains the clothes. He’s also carrying a huge bouquet of flowers - a mixture of daffodils and tulips, along with some tiny little white flowers that Mittermeyer doesn’t recognise, sprinkled in between, all bright and sunny hues, which is definitely not part of his usual court attire.

The flowers would probably look out of place on anyone else, but unfortunately, Reuenthal has always had the knack of making anything and everything look good. Right now, standing in the middle of Mittermeyer’s forty-fifth-floor corner office, Reuenthal looks more like a magazine cover model, bouquet held casually under the crook of his left arm, other hand tucked in his trouser pocket, than a lawyer.

Not for the first time, Mittermeyer wonders why Reuenthal even bothered to choose law. Surely something like modeling or acting would better suit his deliberately over the top dramatics and vogue like aesthetics.

“Mittermeyer,” Reuenthal says and god forbid, he’s _smiling_ , walking over and settling onto the edge of Mittermeyer’s work desk and crossing his ankles neatly. He pauses and places the flowers on top of the neat stack of folders in the middle, fingers brushing across the petals gently when he draws back.

“So, tell me.” He’s still smiling, eyes wide and innocent in a way that Mittermeyer knows to be nothing but utter lies. “How much does Eva like flowers?”

Despite the completely innocuous-sounding question, Mittermeyer still has a very bad feeling about all of this.

*

If there’s one thing Mittermeyer is proud of, apart from his gorgeous wife, of course, it’s his unfailing instinct for spotting out bullshit at a hundred yards. It’s one of the many things that makes him an amazing attorney and coupled with his ability to sort through endless piles of documents and sniff out just the right information, or that little tidbit that just doesn’t match up with everything else means that Mittermeyer definitely deserves his partner position in the firm.

Perhaps it’s entirely due to the lengthy period of time he’s known Reuenthal for and honed out of sheer necessity, but whenever Mittermeyer gets that cold feeling trickling down his spine, he knows there’s something fishy going on.

“What did you do?” Mittermeyer asks Reuenthal, voice flat and unimpressed. He crosses his arms and presses his shoulders into his ergonomic leather swivel chair, imported from Japan. “Out with it.”

Reuenthal sniffs and feigns a look of hurt, hands clasped across his heart, over his chest. “Why must you think that I’ve done anything?”

“Because I know you too well,” Mittermeyer says and that is definitely reason enough.

Reuenthal’s worn this exact same expression during their second year of law school when he had ‘accidentally’ tripped and spilled his ice frappuccino (double whip) over Oberstein at their civil law tutorial. This was coincidentally two weeks after Oberstein had snatched up Reuenthal’s preferred topic for their mock trial and Mittermeyer knew for a deadset fact that Reuenthal only ever drank cappuccinos with almond milk.

He raises his eyebrows expectantly and sure enough, after a few minutes of some sort of staring competition, Reuenthal is the one to look away first. He blinks slowly, eyes lowering towards his hands, now clasped together in his lap, and his long lashes fan across his pale skin.

Not for the first time, Mittermeyer sighs to himself about how unfair the universe truly was to gift Reuenthal not only with a mind like a steel trap, but also the kind of ridiculously good looks that had every girl and half the boys of their graduating year lusting after him. No wonder his own father had been concerned about inviting Reuenthal to Mittermeyer and Eva’s wedding originally.

“I’ve met someone,” Reuenthal starts and Mittermeyer immediately does not want to know anymore.

He stands up abruptly, chair rolling back from the force of his movement. Even straightened out to his full height, Mittermeyer still has to tilt his chin up a little to glare at Reuenthal’s face.

“No,” he says firmly.

Reuenthal tilts his head. “But he’s lovely,” he protests. “You’ll understand if you met him -”

Mittermeyer puts his hands on his hips and leans in, making sure he’s got Reuenthal’s full attention before he repeats it again, enunciating both letters clearly and at half speed for extra effect. “No.”

“He’s not like the others,” Reuenthal says and his eyes are a little distant, obviously thinking of his new toy. Mittermeyer is hard-pressed not to wrinkle his nose in disgust, having unfortunately been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had witnessed, first hand, previous instances of Reuenthal ‘playing’ with his toys.

“That’s exactly what you said about the last few,” he reminds him baldly, holding up a hand and counting them off. “There was that Danish model, remember?”

Reuenthal smirks a little. “Oh yes, the hunky blond. Sve-uh, something.”

Mittermeyer points at him. “See, that’s my point exactly. You don’t even remember his name and you went out with him for what? Six weeks?”

Reuenthal rolls his eyes. “Please. I just pretended not to speak Danish. Besides, there’s absolutely no need for names or even talking when your body speaks for you.” He winks. “Also he had a great -”

“Then there were those twins,” Mittermeyer barrels forth, cutting Reuenthal right off.

“Oh,” Reuenthal brightens a little. “Lisa and Laura. They could do this amazing thing with their tongue, you know -”

“Don’t want to know,” Mittermeyer sing-songs, half a second away from stuffing his fingers into his ears if Reuenthal tried to tell him any more about his sexcapades.

Reuenthal crosses his arms and his expression settles into seriousness, the sly humour trickling away to vanish completely from his visage.

“You don’t understand though, Mittermeyer,” he says and the slow curl of fond warmth in his eyes is actually something that Mittermeyer hasn’t seen in a long time. Reuenthal’s expression looks almost soft at that moment, eyes flickering over to the bouquet. “Yang, he’s different. He’s special.”

*

After what basically amounts to a declaration of love from Reuenthal, Mittermeyer keeps an eye on him, half-wary, half-worried.

It’s been years, maybe even a decade, since he had last seen Reuenthal so - dedicated wasn’t the right word, and neither was driven, both of them just barely able to encompass Reuenthal on a day to day basis, as he swanned in and out of the office and the courts, sweet talking clients one moment and then tearing down his opposition viciously during trials in the next.

Mittermeyer muses, watching as Reuenthal comes into his office at least once a day with a new bunch of flowers, like clockwork, his expression soft when he puts them down or hands them to Mittemeyer, that maybe the correct word could be _enamoured_ or maybe even _infatuated_?

There had been this one girl back during his law school days that Mittermeyer thought maybe Reuenthal had more than just skin deep feelings for, and he had acted similarly then, with a kind of out of character softness about him whenever he was with her or spoke of her. It hadn’t worked out, of course, but the Reuenthal during that short three month period had been calmer and was much less antagonistic on purpose.

Reuenthal now though, is different from then. Maybe it’s due to age, maybe it’s because of the other person, but Mittermeyer welcomes the change even as he feels like he’s holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop - be it Reuenthal gets bored and moves on, or if, as unlikely as it is, this entire situation blows up in Reuenthal’s face. Both of these scenarios means that Mittermeyer, as his best friend, has to stay behind and pick up the pieces.

Eva had been a lot more positive about it when he had caved and told her about all of it, from law school to now.

She had smacked him gently on the arm after he had finished, making him wince with exaggeration from the hit. “Or it could all just work out fine and Oskar will finally settle down.”

She had placed her head on his shoulder and leaned into his chest even as his arms came up around her to hold her close, both of them falling into silence for a moment. She had looked up after a while, with her blue eyes sparkling in the dim light of their living room, as they cuddled together on the sofa with the television on low volume.

“Don’t you think he deserves the sort of happiness that we have, Wolf?” she had asked softly and there had been nothing that Mittermeyer had been able to say to that.

*

Mittermeyer learns, over the course of the next couple of weeks, that Yang’s full name is Yang Wenli and he’s the owner of a tiny flower shop, Iserlohn, located on one of the less known streets downtown.

Yang Wenli, also thirty-two, is charming and sweet (according to Reuenthal), very well read and intelligent (according to Reuenthal) and amazingly, still very much single (also according to Reuenthal).

Mittermeyer sighs as he watches Reuenthal place another bouquet, pale pink lilies today, and thankfully much smaller than yesterday’s huge collection of golden gerabas and soft blue irises which is currently sitting on a side table, into one of the vases that Mittermeyer’s secretary had taken the liberty of arranging once he had seen the collection of flowers his boss had started accumulating.

“Do you just visit him to buy flowers?” Mittermeyer asks, crossing his arms as he slouches into his chair, doing his best to keep any judgment from his tone.

Reuenthal glances at him, looking over from where he’s trying to arrange the flowers to best effect next to the window. A splash of sunshine falls across his dark hair, left down today as he’s not due in court, and colouring some strands with burnished copper and rusted gold. He’s also dressed a lot more simply, a buttoned shirt in a dark blue that matches his left eye, along with a slim silver tie with a matching tie pin, the shirt tucked neatly into pressed charcoal slacks.

His brows furrow a little. “What do you mean?” Reuenthal asks slowly, almost cautiously.

Mittermeyer gestures to the large selection of flowers decorating his office, all thanks to Reuenthal and his current habit of bringing back at least one thing per day, along with another tidbit about Yang, like a puppy learning to play fetch. “I mean, do you just walk into his shop, buy some flowers and then leave?”

Reuenthal looks away, which is an extremely telling action for him, lowering his head and pretending to be very enthralled in making sure the lilies are sitting just right. “We talk,” Reuenthal mutters eventually but he doesn’t sound supremely sure of himself at all and he’s not initiating any eye contact, which suggests to Mittermeyer that the answer, if not an outright lie, is a careful obfuscation of the actual truth.

It becomes Mittermeyer’s turn to frown. “Are you serious?” he says, incredulous and disbelieving in turns. “It’s been basically a month and you're telling me that you, Mr. _I-could-sweet-talk-the-devil-into-buying-matches_ himself, haven’t been able to hold a conversation longer than three sentences inclusive of a greeting?”

Reuenthal’s lips take a downwards turn that would be a labeled a pout on anyone else. “I didn’t say anything,” he tells Mittermeyer loftily, chin held high. “You’re inferring.”

“Tell me I’m wrong then,” Mittermeyer says, spreading his hands out like a gesture of welcome, his eyebrows rising up high enough to almost be covered by his fringe, and waits patiently as Reuenthal opens and then closes his mouth a couple of times before just pressing his lips together, the line of his jaw almost mulish.

“Hopeless,” Mittermeyer mutters softly to himself as he thinks of Eva and her apparently very correct read of the situation. She had suggested that it was likely that he might have to be the one to give Reuenthal a gentle push in the right direction if it came down to it.

Sending a mental kiss to his beloved wife for being such a gentle, loving and all-knowing soul, Mittermeyer narrows his eyes and stares at Reuenthal until the latter meets his gaze.

“Right, tomorrow,” he says, determinedly, channeling a bit of his in-court persona, words sharp and crisp and not about to take no as an answer. “You’re taking me to meet Yang Wenli.”

*

Mittermeyer meets the mysterious Yang Wenli on a Tuesday, walking into Iserlohn with Reuenthal in tow. Reuenthal had been uncharacteristically silent the entire walk over, seemingly torn between being pleased that Mittermeyer was taking an interest and admittedly, very well hidden abject terror at the same thought, he remains a couple of steps behind Mittermeyer when he opens the door, hovering behind his shoulder.

Yang himself is crouched down against the far wall, a bucket at his feet filled with various flowers, still needing to be trimmed and whatnot before being bundled into a bouquet. The shop is tiny, with tall shelves that line the wall, filled with everything from flower arrangements boxed and ready to go, to potted plants and cute little garden decorations.

Yang glances over at them when the bell over the shop door tinkles gently as it opens. Mittermeyer definitely doesn’t miss the way his gentle features light up when he sees Reuenthal walk in, a spark of shy pleasure in his dark eyes.

When he stands, he’s close to Mittermeyer’s height but much more slender, dark hair falling across his eyes, loose strands brushing over the side of his cheeks. He’s definitely not the type that Mittermeyer would’ve thought Reuenthal would take an interest in. Yang ticks the helplessly cute box instead of being heart-stoppingly handsome or drop dead gorgeous like every single one of Reuenthal’s previous conquests.

Yang’s got gardening gloves on, clutching some long-stemmed roses, turning to face the two of them as Reuenthal closes the door carefully behind himself, the tiny bell jangling again. Yang puts down the flowers onto the middle shelf and then hesitates before picking them back up. He ends up putting them back down in the next moment, cheeks flushing with colour, wriggling his hands out of his gloves and dropping them next to the pale yellow roses before straightening up again.

He walks over, presumably to greet them, and Reuenthal, standing next to Mittermeyer, actually shifts on his feet, twitching a little. It’s obviously an unconscious move and from Reuenthal, as someone who has a startlingly tight sense of control and who usually doesn’t even shift his finger an extra centimeter without it being planned, even this tiny move telegraphs his feelings like a giant billboard to someone like Mittermeyer, who’s had decades to learn to read him like an open book.

“Good afternoon, Oskar,” Yang says, voice soft. “It’s good to see you again.” He looks a little curiously between Mittermeyer and Reuenthal.

“I’m Wolfgang Mittermeyer,” Mittermeyer says, stepping forward after a moment of silence where Reuenthal does absolutely nothing. He holds out his hand to Yang. “Reuen- Oskar’s been telling me about your shop and I insisted on coming to have a look myself.”

“Oh.” Yang smiles, pleased, a tiny flare of colour dusting across his cheeks as he shakes Mittermeyer’s hand, grip surprisingly firm. He looks at Reuenthal. “That’s very kind of you.”

Reuenthal manages a nod this time and he turns his head away a little on the pretense of being interested in the flow of people outside. Mittermeyer is hard pressed not to stare because surely that isn’t a blush across _love-is-for-the-weak_ Reuenthal’s cheeks would it? Deciding that it’s nothing more than a trick of the light because anything else is basically unthinkable, Mittermeyer focuses his attention on Yang, still slightly perturbed.

To Mittermeyer’s surprise, Reuenthal is right about a few things - Yang is definitely sweet, his personality a little shy but welcoming. He chats quite happily to Mittermeyer when he asks about some of the less common flower types that are scattered around the tiny shop, but Mittermeyer would have to be blind not to see how Yang’s gaze would slide over to Reuenthal every now and again, gaze drawn to him as if he’s unable to help it.

Inwardly, Mittermeyer sighs, because, in a fit of jealous pique or maybe just to be difficult or _something_ , Reuenthal has chosen to stand with his back to the two of them, hands tucked into his pockets and not even glancing in their direction, missing every single visual cue Yang is giving off of being very much interested.

Mittermeyer gives a silent word of thanks again to Eva for her advice and pats himself on the back mentally for being such a good friend. He doesn’t doubt that if he hadn’t made this trip, Reuenthal and Yang would continue on in this awkward fashion for god knows how long.

He’s not above a little misuse of his professional skills - a few subtly pointed questions and some gentle prompting later, after just a short couple of minutes of conversation, Mittermeyer manages to dig out a few surprising little facts about Yang:

One, Yang is definitely as kind and gentle as he looks, he volunteers at a local rescue shelter and fosters cats in his spare time, and two, Reuenthal was also not wrong about him being well-read and intelligent.

“My Ph.D. was in history,” Yang tells him when Mittermeyer asks him about how he got started in this business and finds that he’s actually genuinely curious to hear the answer. Yang ducks his chin at his admission and seems almost embarrassed, which is well, really quite adorable. Mittermeyer is definitely seeing the reason why Reuenthal is so taken with Yang. “But I decided that teaching and research weren’t for me, so a couple of friends and I got together, pooled our resources and opened a couple of stores,” Yang finishes.

“It’s a lovely place and you’re definitely very suited to this work,” Mittermeyer tells him, looking around once more. “The arrangements that Oskar’s been bringing back are so very lovely.” Inwardly, Mittermeyer pulls a face, unused to using Reuenthal's first name, feeling it drop a little awkwardly from his tongue.

Reuenthal is definitely listening, he’s standing much too still to be doing anything else but. Mittermeyer rolls his eyes and glances back at Yang in time to see him looking from Reuenthal to Mittermeyer and then back, a small crease in between his brows deepening as he seems to think of something.

“Oh,” he says, voice small. “Were the flowers all for you?”

It takes Mittermeyer a couple of seconds to actually comprehend the meaning behind that question and he wants to smack himself in the face for even mistakenly implying that he and Reuenthal had that sort of relationship.

Reuenthal, that useless bastard, doesn’t seem inclined to correct this mistaken assumption at all, still just kind of awkwardly hovering in a corner. Mittermeyer has never seen Reuenthal even associated with the words ‘awkward’ or ‘hovering’ before this moment in his life.

Since it looks like it’s completely up to him to fix what he’s inadvertently done, Mittermeyer, after a slanted glare at Reuenthal, clears his throat to catch Yang’s attention again. When Yang peeks up at him, Mittermeyer, with a very exaggerated glance at his watch, which also happens to make the wedding ring on his finger glint when he tilts his wrist deliberately, deadpans, “Oh, we’ve taken up so much of your time.”

He says this loudly enough to draw Reuenthal’s attention, evidenced by the way he turns slightly towards them. Mittermeyer picks up a random bunch of flowers and places them on the counter. “Sorry for the bother, Yang. Let me just buy these for my wife, she loves this colour.”

“You’re married?” Yang asks before he flushes at his own rudeness. “I mean, it’s no bother. It’s fairly quiet so I do quite enjoy it when people visit.” He’s looking shyly in Reuenthal’s direction again as he says this, from beneath lowered lashes.

Reuenthal, who Mittermeyer has never seen miss even the tiniest of openings, seems content to let this chance, presented to him on a silver platter, slide past, too busy pretending not to be staring at Yang. Mittermeyer is hard-pressed not to sigh loudly again, because _seriously_ , this was getting out of control, fast.

Just as he’s considering if physically shoving Reuenthal into Yang or locking the two of them into a non-existent closet would be an acceptable method to deal with this level of mutual pining, a higher power, possibly moved by his suffering, makes it so that Yang actually somehow manages to trip over something on the floor as he goes to walk around the counter to ring up Mittermeyer’s purchase.

Mittermeyer is just stepping forward, prompted by his instinctive reaction to help as Yang wobbles unsteadily on his feet for one dangerous moment, dark eyes wide, when Reuenthal finally decides to move, striding past him. He manages to catch Yang just in time, grabbing his wrist with one hand, and wrapping his other arm around his shoulders to steady him.

There’s a moment when the two of them do nothing but stare at each other, Yang held gently in the circle of Reuenthal’s arms and Mittermeyer swears he can almost see the glittering sparkles that cascade around them as well as hear the angelic choir breaking into song somewhere above.

“I like you. A lot,” Reuenthal says abruptly, or more accurately, blurts out, a little blankly and completely without forethought. Mittermeyer honestly doesn’t think he’s heard something so spontaneous fall from Reuenthal’s mouth ever.

Yang’s eyes go wide and both he and Reuenthal flush with colour at the unwitting confession, still staring at each other, which is admittedly kind of adorable. Mittermeyer hadn’t been imagining it before after all, because it sure looks like Reuenthal is actually more than capable of being a real boy on occasion.

Mittermeyer is hopeful that now, with those words spoken out loud, Reuenthal will finally man up and do what needs to be done. He’s not disappointed, because, in the next moment, Reuenthal swallows and then asks, “Would you like to go to lunch with me sometime?”

Yang blushes again, cheeks flaring a darker red before the previous colour has even had a chance to fade, and manages to squeak out a ‘yes’.

Reuenthal helps him stand then, keeping his arm looped around Yang’s shoulders for much longer than necessary. Yang himself doesn’t seem to mind at all, both of them remaining well within each other’s personal space and seemingly not inclined to move any time soon.

Mittermeyer smiles fondly even as he rolls his eyes a little, turning to leave. He glances back once, just as he’s about to step through the door he’s holding open with his left hand, and neither Reuenthal nor Yang seem to have noticed his departure, both of them still standing close together.

Even as Mittermeyer watches, Reuenthal reaches out on the pretense of brushing Yang’s hair back, but Mittermeyer’s knows what’s coming, having seen this very move quite often in the past. Sure enough, Reuenthal smooths back a stray strand before his fingers drop a little, tilting Yang’s chin up as he leans in slow, giving ample time for Yang to pull away if he wanted.

Mittermeyer looks away, letting the door shut after him as he leaves them to it. He has three client meetings in the afternoon and he still needs to get lunch as well as arrange for Reuenthal’s assistant to reschedule the rest of his day after all. He’s now done with his task as a dutiful and helpful best friend and well, everything else will be up to Reuenthal to see it through.

He walks down the street, back towards the office, mood much improved now that Reuenthal will likely stop moping around his office and bringing him flowers and generally just stop being such a complete nuisance. With that thought in mind, basking in the warm sunshine that falls upon him like a blessing, Mittermeyer figures that he’ll probably just grab something from the food truck parked nearby. Settling onto that idea, he ponders for a few seconds before he gives in and pulls out his phone, still walking along. He hits speed dial one, putting it up to his ear as the other person picks up immediately.

“Good afternoon, love,” he says.

Eva’s voice is clear and she sounds delighted to hear from him as always. “Good afternoon, Wolf,” she says, sweet and loving as always. “Have you had a good day so far?”

Mittermeyer smiles at that, lips curving softly, because well, he has. 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://fortress-of-iserlohn.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/rawr_loncat)~


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